


bedbugs

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a Strider is sick and an English is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bedbugs

**Author's Note:**

> Request from derperistical@tumblr. c:

You are a guy by the name of Strider and Striders do not get sick.

They do not lie in bed while Jake English fusses over them and generally makes their pounding, throbbing _ouch ouch ouch_ headache get worse, their voices do not gargle unintelligibly from their throats when they ask for a damn glass of water, and they most definitely do not let said Jake English get them a glass of _milk_ of all things instead and you are definitely throwing that up later but it makes him feel better and hell, one of you should.

…okay, screw later, you are upchucking this shit now.

Jake winces as you lean over the side of the bed towards the bucket you’d literally shouted at him to put there (but _why?_ the stupid idiot had said) and hurl your fucking intestines out. “Christ, English,” you croak as you settle back down feeling no less exhausted than you already do, “h-…aven’t you ever gotten sick before?” Damn, it is so much harder to pull off your usual drawl when your throat feels like it’s coated in muck.

“No,” he says with uncharacteristic uncertainty, and after this processes in your mind you stare at him with bleary eyes and the most incredulous stare you can muster. “What?” he asks defensively.

You choose not to answer because you cannot physically expend the effort right now, and so you painstakingly roll over so that your back is facing away from him, cocooning yourself further into the blankets Jake had piled on the bed when he first got here. Shit, you didn’t even know that you had this many blankets. You reflect nauseously that the thing you hate most about being sick right now is that even with this pile of warm, fuzzy blankets on you, you are still shivering. Asking Jake to ironically brocuddle you to keep you warm sounds awesome right about now.

Jake hovers nervously for a moment before moving around the side of the bed so that you’re facing him again. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Nah, you’ve done enough,” you say in response to the offer, hating how small your voice sounds.

His lips curve into a worried frown—he probably noticed too. And you can hear the cogs in his brain turning as he what the hell he leans down and presses a kiss to your foreheard like a mom taking care of their little sweety-sugarpie, _what the hell._

“You are the worst caregiver ever,” you attempt to deadpan, because he probably saw that in a movie or something but wouldn’t that mean that he would know a little bit how to take care of a sick person? Either way you’re grabbing weakly onto his wrist and scooching over in your bed as best you can, pulling until he lets you drag him down. He’s wearing a stupidly confused expression, but he’s on the bed and he’s warmer than a bunch of blankets, and you don’t really care if he gets sick now too because then he can feel just how miserable it is.

“What are you doing?” Jake inquires uncomfortably, shoving some of the blankets off of him but making no other moves to get away or anything. He’s probably really fucking hot under here.

You gather him into your arms anyways and sigh in relief when some of the shudders subside. “Shut up, English.”

Why didn’t you do this sooner? This is a hundred times better. You don’t even really feel like you’re going to throw up anymore. After a while your eyelids start to feel heavy, and you barely even notice when Jake snuggles further into your chest or when he slides his arm casually around your waist, but hey, that feels nice too. Real nice.

You’ve still got a throbbing headache and your throat still feels like an unclogged toilet, but Jake’s a pro at brocuddling and you’re asleep the next time you blink.

:

You feel a hell of a lot better when you eventually wake up, thank god. There’s still a slightly fuzzy heavy feeling everywhere, but Jake’s body heat seems to have done most of the trick, as creepy as that sounds. You fully expect him to at least look a _little_ worse for wear, like maybe some of your bug rubbed off on him, but when you pull back a little to glance down at him he’s fully awake and all smiles and sunshine.

(His legs are tangled with yours and you are pressed way too closely against him, you realize vaguely.)

You’re still too sleepy to care much about anything that should matter, though, and so when he props himself up on an elbow and chirps a good morning before dipping forward to kiss your forehead again, _dammit_ , you angle your head so that he gets your mouth instead because that’s where he should be. Jake realizes this too late because you’re already rolling on top of him and he gives this shaky little exhale before his hands go to your shoulders; you’re not entirely sure that you’re ready to be pushed off yet, but you already have an excuse—you can say that in your delirious bout of sickness you mistaked him for Jane and you’ve had a crush on her for the longest time _nope sorry_ _it’s you, Jake, you and you stupid bad caregiving skills._

But Jake’s not pushing you away and his arms are wrapping around your neck and pulling you down closer, and maybe after this he’ll have some dumbshit excuse too, but for right now you are more than happy to kiss the everloving fuck out of him. He lets out a strangled moan when you nip at his bottom lip so you do it again and elicit a soft gasp this time. You don’t need an invitation to kiss him deeper, or to stroke your tongue urgently against his, so you do that too and this time you’re shivering the good kind of shivers.

The best part of it is that _he’s shuddering too_.

This is the best fucking thing in the world and even if you’re pretty sure this whole spontaneous kissing thing was not supposed to go in tis direction, you don’t really care. Kissing Jake English is nice and from the sounds of it he likes kissing you, too.

You barely remember that you’re sick, or at least a little sick, when he makes a low keening sound in the back of his throat and rocks his hips up towards yours. Jesus fuck, teenage hormones must be raging here—all you’ve done is kiss and just like that he’s hard and you’re hard and when you snap your hips down to meet him, heat goes through your body like damn purple prose fireworks. 

Pulling back from the kiss for one brief second (you can’t fight the urge and the want to see his face when your fingers go for the fly of his pants), you make quick work of getting his boxers down around his ankles along with his shorts. The sound Jake lets out before a hand flies up to cover his red mouth and red, red face when you wrap your fingers impatiently around his cock goes straight to your groin.

It comes as a pleasant surprise when the hand not struggling to muffle his noises fumbles clumsily for the zipper of your pants, trembling all the while.

The first brush of his hand against your dick is fucking _heaven:_ you push yourself nearer, tug his hand away from his lips and capture his mouth again, teeth clacking harshly against each other and _you don’t even care_ since he’s kissing back just as frantically and fuck you don’t know how long you’ve wanted to do this. It takes only a few uncoordinated strokes on Jake’s part for your to come all over his hand and probably your bed too, and you try to keep your eyes open as you hurriedly jerk him off even through the euphoria. His eyes clench tightly shut as he orgasms without a sound and then you both just lay there and breath the same air and catch whatever breath you can.

Holy shit.

This is a sticky mess and you hate sticky messes but you wait for Jake to find his words before you get up because it really looks like he wants to say something, but all he says is “oh,” and you get up anyways.

“I’ll go get a towel or something,” you announce.

That seems to jolt him back into awareness and Jake jumps up before you can step towards the bathroom, expression stern. “I’ll get it! You’re probably still sick. Lie back down, Strider.”

“Tch,” you scoff and grin just slightly and wow this is strangely comfortable. “Gonna make me, English?”

You proceed to have the most unplatonic wrestling match in the history of platonic wrestling matches.

:

And weeks later, you’re still waiting patiently for him to get sick from whatever you had.

The stupid idiot never does.


End file.
